


Tender as Dew, Impetuous as Rain

by GretaOto



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Arthur gets sweary when upset, Awkwardness, Crack, Cupid - Freeform, Established Relationship, Fluff, HGTVstars!AU, M/M, Next Big Thing!AU, Valentine's Day, Wings, accidental angst, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3934483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretaOto/pseuds/GretaOto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is the adventurous one in the bedroom. Arthur can't always handle it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tender as Dew, Impetuous as Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Next Big Thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349583) by [earlgreytea68](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68). 



> To my friends in the NBT comment party: you are INSATIABLE and ENABLERS and I DON’T EVEN KNOW what this is or where it came from. Cosmogyral_mad_woman, zoolooney, pureimaginatrix, and flosculatory in particular, I blame y’all for all 2,544 words of this nonsense.
> 
> To readers who are not in the NBT comment party: this story will probably make more sense if you go read [Next Big Thing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3349583/chapters/7328477) first (including the comments). Actually, you may need to start with the prequel, [Fixer-Upper](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3234224/chapters/7043915). 
> 
> I lied, it probably won’t make much more sense. But it will be slightly less cracky in context. Maybe. Well okay, maybe not. (In case you don’t have time to read 223,000+ words first, I have helpfully quoted the relevant portion for you.)
> 
> This is set sometime during Fixer-Upper. I was lazy and did not reread it to check dates/months/times of year, so *hand waving*, pretend that they got together sometime in January, and that the season of Love It or List It continued for at least two more months after. 
> 
> Entirely un-betaed. Feel free to let me know if you spot typos or things that don’t make sense, I’m happy to go correct them.
> 
> The title of this story is taken from the poem [A Dream Girl](http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/a-dream-girl-by-carl-sandburg) by Carl Sandburg. The line described Eames too perfectly to resist.
> 
> ETA 5/18/15: To update the tags to reflect that this story is substantially more angsty and less cracky than I realized it. Apparently it made people have feels. Oops. So, be warned, I guess?

\--

From NBT chapter 175:

> _“It’s true,” says Eames. “Our lives are nothing but romance. Normally I strew rose petals all about the floors and sometimes I even serenade Arthur on the harp.”_
> 
> _“No, he doesn’t,” says Arthur._
> 
> _“Sometimes I dress up as Cupid but for some reason Arthur insists me in nothing but a diaper isn’t sexy.” Eames shrugs sadly._
> 
> _That did happen once and Arthur doesn’t like to dwell on remembering it. “Moving on,” he says._

\--

Arthur has had a shitty day. 

Ever since Love It or List It took off, too many of Arthur’s clients have begun to demand the impossible from him. As if being on TV suddenly makes him capable of performing miracles. If only he could. His current clients are prime examples of this.

Yet Arthur, being the really fucking good real estate agent that he is, managed to find them not one, not two, but three different houses that fit literally every bullet point on their four-page list of demands.

They hated all three.

Arthur doesn’t have Eames’ ability to show clients the exact opposite of what they asked for and then convince them that it is exactly what they wanted all along. This fact is incredibly frustrating. Arthur is convinced that using this skill on their show should be considered cheating. An unfair advantage requiring a handicap, like in golf, at the very least.

And speaking of Eames, the whole “competition” aspect of their show has become rather annoying since they finally got together. Not that Arthur was a big fan of it to begin with, once he realized that Eames was destined to win almost every episode due to his overwhelming charisma and English charm. But now, competing against his significant other seems like asking for trouble in Paradise.

So Arthur has had a shitty day in a shitty week. He is looking forward to a large glass of wine, some good takeout, and curling up with Eames in front of a mindless movie, preferably in that order. 

When Eames texts him five minutes before he arrives home – _“darling, I have special plans 4 u 4 tonite, u shud come home now"_ \- Arthur just sighs and rolls his eyes. He doesn't even have the energy to snipe at Eames' terrible texting habits. 

_"On my way."_ Arthur replies. (After all, one shouldn’t neglect proper grammar and punctuation just because they are texting. Character limits no longer apply in the smartphone age.)

Arthur opens the door to red rose petals. A heart made of rose petals just inside the door. A trail of rose petals down the hallway. Rose petals on every single flat surface of the living room larger than a fucking rose petal, and possibly one or two that are smaller. It’s like navigating a minefield, trying to enter the house without stepping on any of the petals and grinding them into their white carpet.

(Arthur had learned the hard way that, if crushed, roses can and will stain any light-colored fabric surface. The bill he received for replacing all the linens in his hotel room after an ill-advised romantic getaway with an ex-boyfriend was a memorable and expensive lesson.)

Eames is conspicuously absent, however. _Petals, petals everywhere and not a drop of Eames,_ Arthur thinks tiredly.

The significance of the flowers finally percolates through Arthur’s exhausted, starving brain.

He pulls out his phone to check the date.

_February 14. Shit. It’s Valentine’s Day._

Arthur is officially the Worst Boyfriend Ever.

This is their first Valentine’s Day together, and not only did Arthur not get Eames anything, he fucking forgot all about it. Meanwhile Eames apparently went to a lot of time and energy not forgetting about it.

Arthur is sure that as soon as Eames finds out he is the only one putting any romantic effort into this relationship, Arthur’s ass will be out the door in record time.

(Disregarding the fact the Arthur quickly realized that Eames is not a morning person, and has figured out how he likes his coffee, and has made it a habit to bring him a cup in bed, especially on the mornings when they have to be on set early. And ignoring the tub of pistachio ice cream in his freezer, which Arthur can’t stand but always keeps on hand anyway because it is Eames’ favorite. Definitely discounting the veritable library of texts and pictures stored on his phone, because he misses Eames like crazy when they’re apart and makes sure to tell him so. Those aren’t _Romantic Gestures_ , they’re just part of being in a relationship.)

A soft tinkling noise cuts through the tidal wave of thoughts, temporarily derailing Arthur’s impending panic spiral.

_Is that a harp?_

It is a harp, playing a rendition of Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are” if Arthur is not mistaken, and it is coming from their bedroom. Arthur has no choice but to investigate.

He carefully tiptoes through the petal-strewn hallway to find their bedroom just as elaborately decorated, two candles burning on either side of the bed (a gentle lavender scent, which Arthur finds irresistibly soothing despite himself), and still no Eames.

“Daaaarling.”

Arthur pauses in his examination of the flowers on the bed. He knows that tone of voice. It’s the I’ve-done-something-creative-and-I’m-very-proud-of-myself tone. It’s the tone that accompanies everything from a figuring out how to install a hot tub on the roof of a 900 square foot townhome ( _“it’s completely structurally sound and conforms to every state and municipal code darling, Paul insisted”_ ) to discovering a moth-eaten velvet tapestry at a second-hand shop ( _“just picture it darling, with a little bit of extra stitching, this will go perfect in our entry hallway, we can put this little end table right here to block the bigger holes!”_ ).

Arthur turns around slowly, eyes fixed down.

There are bare feet in the doorway. Distinctly Eamesian feet, that’s a good start.

Arthur slowly lifts his gaze. Bare legs. Not entirely unexpected. Definitely not unwelcome. Arthur pauses to appreciate Eames’ shapely calves and firm thighs before raising his eyes some more.

_What. The. Actual. Fuck._

_Is that a diaper? Why is Eames wearing a diaper? That has got to be, bar none, the unsexiest thing I have ever seen._

Arthur quickly finishes his once-over, skimming past Eames’ bare torso and the tiny bow-and-arrow ( _wait, what?_ ) held jauntily in one hand, to Eames’ pleased smirk and waggling eyebrows.

“What. The. Actual. Fuck.” Arthur repeats, out loud this time.

Eames’ smile slips but doesn’t completely fade. “Darling, don’t you recognize me? I’m Cupid, the God of Love!”

Arthur crosses his arms and raises one eyebrow, frowning. He is not in the mood to deal with roleplay tonight.

“You’re wearing a diaper, Eames. Just no.”

“Not just a diaper, love, I’ve got wings too.” Eames spins around to show a pair of tiny, glittery gold wings attached to his shoulder blades. He attempts to shimmy them for emphasis. They look ridiculous.

“Doesn’t matter, I can still see the diaper. We are not doing this.”

Eames somehow makes his illegally-plush lips even poutier.

“But I was going to poke you with my magic arrow!” Eames protests while thrusting his hips suggestively.

The terrible pun is the last straw. Arthur is hungry and tired and pissed at his clients and feeling guilty over forgetting about fucking Valentine’s Day especially when Eames went to so much effort.

“I said no, Eames. You and your fucking puns and your ridiculous outfit and frankly creepy role playing. Seriously, I don’t know how you manage to look so unattractive right now with that much skin showing. And for what, a stupid holiday that’s just an invention of the greeting card companies? This is not me, you know I don’t like this kind of shit. Are you just trying to piss me off more when you know I’ve had a bad day? I’m done. Clean this up before the petals stain, I don’t want to have to replace the duvet cover again.”

Arthur stomps out of the bedroom, brushing past Eames in the doorway. He tries not to notice the way that Eames’ shoulders have slumped, the hurt and confused look on his lovely face, the way even the fucking plastic wings are drooping.

He stomps (carefully) to the kitchen, where he takes great pleasure in crushing the petals on the tile (because at least _those_ won’t stain anything) while pulling a tumbler and a bottle of single malt scotch out of the cabinets. He pours himself two fingers, stares at the glass, then pours himself some more. Fuck wine, Arthur needs something a lot stronger right now.

As Arthur is leaning there against the counter, staring into his glass and muttering unkind things under his breath, he hears footsteps in the hallway. And then he hears the coat closet open, and the rustle and rasp of a coat being pulled on and zipped up.

And then he hears the front door open.

The soft snick of the door latch snaps through the haze of (mostly self-) loathing.

_Fucking hell. What have you just done? He was just trying to do something nice for you, and you have to go off on him like that. If you’re lucky, he’ll just yell at you when he gets back. If you’re not lucky…_

Arthur slowly sets down his tumbler on the kitchen table as the sheer enormity of his mistake, his colossal fuck-up, washes over him.

Eames is the best thing he has ever had, end of story. Eames is the best person he has ever or will ever meet, and Arthur is beyond lucky to be dating him, to have him in even the smallest way.

And he just threw it all away. 

On fucking Valentine’s Day.

The realization takes his breath away.

Arthur walks into the living room like a man possessed. He stares at the display of petals strewn around the room. He hadn’t noticed it earlier, but interspersed between the crimson notes are more candles (placed for a perfect balance of ambiance and safety, the remaining shred of Arthur’s logical mind contributes) and little sprays of mini calla lilies (Arthur’s all-time favorite flower because of their clean, elegant lines).

The amount of time and thought and effort that Eames put into the endeavor is overwhelming.

And Arthur fucking yelled at him. For no good reason whatsoever, other than Arthur isn’t nearly as good of a boyfriend as Eames, is leagues away in fact, and was feeling guilty about it.

He sinks onto the couch (after carefully putting away the petals) and buries his head in his hands as the panic spiral from earlier come crashing back in full force, drowning him in paralyzing regret.

Arthur isn’t sure how long he sits there. He has just about worked up the resolve to gather his stuff and leave – to where, he’s not sure, maybe Dom would have a spare bedroom, he could find a new apartment in the morning – when the smell of gratin dauphinois and boeuf bourguignon intrudes on his melancholy.

Arthur lifts his head to find Eames standing in front of him, carrying nondescript boxes, two plates, and a handful of silverware. The name on the bag is from Arthur’s favorite restaurant, which Arthur knows _for a fact_ does not offer take out. Eames doesn’t say anything, but as he takes in the expression on Arthur’s face, his own softens. He sits down next to Arthur, fills a plate, and hands it to him, all in silence.

Arthur just stares at what appears to be a peace offering. But Eames has nothing to apologize for. Arthur should be the one apologizing. It doesn’t make sense.

Eames nudges the plate closer. Arthur’s stomach growls, and he realizes that the gnawing in his stomach is probably only slightly related to stress and probably has more to do with the fact that he hasn’t eaten anything since his morning cup of coffee, and maybe he really should eat something before he tries to put together a coherent apology.

As Arthur nears the bottom of his plate, his bites get smaller and smaller, trying to delay the inevitable in a gastronomic illustration of Zeno’s Paradox. Finally, he gathers up his last shreds of courage and shoves away his plate.

“I’m sorry. I was an ass and you were just trying to be romantic and spontaneous, and I completely ruined it. And I forgot about Valentine’s Day.”

Arthur stares at Eames, trying not to let the tears he can feel welling up spill over. If Eames has even an ounce of sense (and he _does_ , despite his flights of artistic fancy, he is incredibly sensible and rational when he needs to be) he will realize that he has made a bad investment and break up Arthur now and be done with it.

Eames takes Arthur’s trembling fists and gently presses them to his lips.

“Darling, I forgive you. I know you’ve been having a rough week, and I forgot you don’t find that kind of surprise as relaxing as I do. We’re still learning each other, and sometimes we’re going to hit rough patches, but you didn’t completely ruin everything. I still love you, and neither of us will be going anywhere. Now, do you want to talk more about it, or shall we pretend that none of that ever happened?”

Arthur leans forward and drops his head onto Eames’ shoulder in relief. His answer is muffled in Eames’ shirt.

“What was that?” Eames asks gently.

Arthur lifts his head up, just enough to unmuffle his words. “I don’t deserve you, Eames. I really don’t. But I still want you. God, how I want you. Just you, no costumes, no roles, just you. Can we do that? And yes, I’d like to forget that I was ever this stupid, if you’ll let me.”

“Of course we can, darling.” Eames brushes a kiss against Arthur’s forehead. “We will never speak of this again.”

(Of course, Eames breaks that promise a month later while they are filming an episode of Love It or List It. Arthur has lost, again, but he is truly happy for the family, Eames has outdone himself, and the end result is perfect for them, really perfect, so much better than any of the options Arthur found. “Can’t you at least look a little annoyed at your loss, Arthur?” Dom asks. “This is your fourth loss in a row. It would make for much better television.” But no matter how hard he tries, Arthur can’t seem to wipe the smile from his face. _“Darling, I have a brilliant idea for tonight. I can play Cupid, and you can be my hapless forest nymph. Doesn’t that sound delightful?”_ Eames whispers, sotto voce. Arthur’s withering glare in response is used for the episode’s reaction shot. Dom is pleased. Arthur is less so, but Eames finds a way to make it up to him later.)

Arthur rolls his head sideways to look up at Eames and smiles tiredly.

“I know you were just trying to cheer me up. I’m really sorry for blowing up at you like that. I was just feeling guilty that I hadn’t done anything for you.”

Eames lightly kisses the tip of his nose.

“Eames, do you mind if we just watch a movie tonight? I’m so drained now, I don’t think I have enough energy for anything else.”

“Of course, darling, anything for you.”

(It takes a while before Eames suggests any more role play in the bedroom. But once he does, Arthur finds out that maybe he doesn’t mind it nearly as much as he thought he did. Maybe, just maybe, it’s okay to be silly sometimes.)

**Author's Note:**

> If you are now full of feels and need something significantly less angsty and much hotter (whew! *fans self*) to feel better, go read Zoolooney's sequel, [Cupid, Take Two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3936739). It is FANTASTIC.


End file.
